


ruination day

by patrokla



Category: Set the Thames on Fire (2015)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Medical Trauma, art is obsessed with ruining things, if you can call it 'medical', until the epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 09:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8244671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrokla/pseuds/patrokla
Summary: Sal’s beautiful, and beautiful people get away with so little in this world. Art thinks it used to be the opposite, once upon a time. Everyone has always wanted to possess something beautiful, but it used to be that they respected it. Them. Now, everyone wants to ruin what’s beautiful. It’s the only kind of victory left. Art doesn’t know if he wants to ruin Sal.or; a scene-by-scene fic from Art's point of view.





	1. Act 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while watching the movie, and edited it promptly after, so there are probably things I missed. Posting an epilogue in the morning.
> 
> Title from Gillian Welch's song 'Ruination Day Part II.'

Art doesn’t trust people. What’s the fucking point of it? Either you’ll get your heart broken when people die, or your trust broken when they fuck you over. No, there’s no fucking point to it at all. So he doesn’t trust people.  
  
Sal is people. _Should be_ people. He’s practically a stranger, and the way he looks at Art, the way he keeps giving him things, is suspicious. Art thinks maybe Sal’s only there because he wants to fuck him.   
  
That’s what he tells himself he should think, anyway. But then he tells himself lots of things. He tells himself that if they’re sharing a bottle, a bed, every minute of the day together, it’s only out of necessity. You’ve got to share what you have, and between the two of them they have so little, but somehow it’s just enough. Mostly.  
  
Sal insists that he used to be a fisherman, for a few days. Art doesn’t quite believe him, mostly because he’s awful at catching fish, but there’s no harm in indulging the fantasy. Art’s got a lot of fantasies, and Sal indulges them all.   
  
He’s almost too indulgent. He only gets upset when Art tells stories that don’t end happily - most of them don’t, but Art starts to cut off the sad endings. Forgets them - by accident, he tells himself. But it’s nice to tell a story where no one dies. It’s new.  
  
Sal doesn’t hit him. Doesn’t take his stuff in the night, or try and bum him while he’s sleeping. Art goes to sleep the first night and wakes up expecting pain of some kind, but instead there’s just the warmth of another body next to his. A body that entangles increasingly with his own during the next few nights, until one morning Art starts awake and accidentally elbows Sal right in the ribs, because he’s got an arm wrapped around him.  
  
It turns out alright, though. Sal doesn’t mind being elbowed accidentally. Doesn’t mind that Art only knows a few songs, and a few stories. Art thinks maybe Sal is a bit simple, but that’s alright, too. Simple or not, Sal is there for him.  
  
So when Sal asks, eyes bright and face unbearably honest, if they can go to Egypt, what can Art say but yes? Art doesn’t know much about friendship, and he doesn’t trust people, but. Sal is there for him. So he’ll be there for Sal.


	2. Act 2

He’d almost call Sal an innocent. Almost, except how no one in London is innocent. Except how Sal has a filthy smile he produces when the rent is due. Except how Art spent forty minutes listening to Sal fuck Mrs. Hortense through the too-thin walls.  
  
He’s not jealous, he tells himself. Disturbed, maybe, at how eagerly Sal gives himself away. But he thinks he’s starting to understand Sal. He likes to give pieces of himself away. He’s given Art his dreams, his ambitions. And he’s given Mrs. Hortense his cock.  
  
Art’s won the deal, out of the two of them. Really.  
  
—  
  
Maybe Sal’s not innocent, maybe he’s just an utter fool. Art should’ve considered this, really, but somehow it doesn’t really occur to him until they’re sitting at a table with the witch of London, Collette, and Sal tells her that they’re going to Ancient Egypt. Like they’re children, planning on running away from home. Christ, but Art feels humiliated. Humiliated, but also angry when Collette looks at Sal so condescendingly. She doesn’t look at Art like that, no, she looks at him with a gleam in her eye that tells him one day they might be equals. Sal, she treats like a well-meaning, but ultimately irrelevant boy. Or pet.  
  
And she asks them if they're lovers, and he doesn’t know what to feel when Sal squares his shoulders and denies it. Or maybe he doesn’t deny it. Art knows a lot of words, he’s read a lot of books, but he can’t quite read Sal. Sal tells him everything, but Art’s still not sure what Sal really wants.  
  
—  
  
He hears Sal and the magician, hears him ask Sal for a kiss, and Art wonders if it’s that easy. If he could just - ask. And Sal would give, and give.  
  
And if it is that easy, would it mean anything? Does it mean anything when Sal grips his hand as they walk through the city, when he willingly grasps the magician’s hand?  
  
Art lies awake and wonders if he lost his heart because he tried to hide it, or because it withered away from jealousy.  
  
—  
  
It’s almost a relief when he sees the dead body. The pillow covering the magician’s face, with Sal’s dirty fingerprints so clear on the linen. When Sal says he only did it because he was asked to, Art can’t help but wonder. Would Sal kill him, if he asked?  
  
—  
  
Sal’s riddled, Art tells Collette's servant, and it doesn’t stop her from longing. Fair enough, it doesn’t stop Art from longing. Or whatever it is he’s doing while he watches Sal make his way through life with wide-eyed optimism. He doesn’t know why Sal thinks that they’re family. Doesn’t know why Sal wants that, but he seems to, so Art will make it happen. Let it happen. Whichever.  
  
—  
  
Sal’s beautiful, and beautiful people get away with so little in this world. Art thinks it used to be the opposite, once upon a time. Everyone has always wanted to possess something beautiful, but it used to be that they respected it. Them. Now, everyone wants to ruin what’s beautiful. It’s the only kind of victory left.  
  
Art doesn’t know if he wants to ruin Sal.  
  
He doesn’t think so, because there’s no way to describe what’s in the club besides ruin, and he hates it. Hates all of it, the show and the scars and the people. He doesn’t want that for Sal.  
  
There’s not a single bit of him that wants it, when the Impresario’s assistant tells them they’ll do each other. Sal’s frozen, his mouth smeared with that useless, stupid lipstick, and Art wants him, but he doesn’t want this.  
  
—  
  
To finally find Sal’s limits is a relief, or it would be if it didn’t mean Art was forced to put his hands on the Impresario. He’s never felt anything this awful with his own skin. He’s seen things, course he has, but he’s never had to _touch_ , and he wonders if Sal’s ever felt like this.  
  
Even as he jumps out of the window, Art can feel the grease on his hands.


	3. Act 3

It’s all goes to shit so quickly. One minute they’re sitting in a cafe eating lukewarm porridge, veins still coursing with adrenaline from the escapades of the night. Sal isn’t focusing, and Art isn’t sure why he still feels terrified, but then they did steal from the Impresario.  
  
There are repercussions for that. There are always repercussions, because that’s the world they live in, and Art’s face is on television screens and newspapers, and the only thing he knows is that they have to run.  
  
—  
  
It hits him, or maybe he always knew, that they can’t both survive. Both people never survive. His mother died. The magician’s lover left. The witch’s grocer boy…  
  
Both people never survive, and if one of them is going to then it’s got to be Sal. Sal, who still has a heart. Sal, who likes dogs and dancing. Sal, who’s looking at him like he’s mad, but Art’s made up his mind. Sal has to survive.  
  
—  
  
Art sits on his bed and waits. He’s not sure if it counts as suicide if you go somewhere where you know you’ll be killed. He’s not sure that it matters.  
  
It’s just. He didn’t expect to be so terrified. He didn’t expect the Impresario to kill Mrs. Hortense, but then maybe he should’ve. He didn’t expect the Impresario to have it all wrong. As if he, Arthur, could ever be an assassin. If he was capable of murder, he would’ve murdered himself long ago.  
  
He didn’t expect to have to withstand anything. But then, once it’s started, it’s almost easy. Knowing that he’ll die soon enough, what’s a little thing like holding his tongue? Knowing that he’ll die with the memory of Sal’s hand in his, that’s worth a few blows.  
  
It ends up being more than a few blows, because he can’t stop his idiot body from trying to stand up, and that’s the type of thing the Impresario hates, even more than theft or assassins. Assuming there’s a difference between the three.  
  
Eventually, though, thick hands wrap around his throat, and he knows that this is it. The End. Not a bad way to go, really. He’s seen worse. Sal’s alive. Sal might even make it to Africa. Probably not, and it’s very selfish to think it, but Art’s glad that he gets to die with the faint hope that Sal might escape.  
  
—  
  
Except Sal is there. Art would be furious if he weren’t trying to figure out how to make his lungs work again, because how dare Sal arrive in time to ruin this. It’s illogical, he realizes, to be angry at Sal when Sal is dragging him towards the corner, away from the Impresario. Despite this, he almost manages to be angry - almost, until the fog thickens the air, and the two of them watch the Impresario claw himself apart.  
  
It’s like watching one of the magician’s magic tricks. You’re meant to be excited, but also upset, and maybe a little cheated. The Impresario’s blood spatters across Art’s face, and he should feel more revolted than he did when he touched the Impresario’s skin.  
  
He doesn’t.  
  
—  
  
Sal helps him limp down the stairs of his building.  
  
They stop briefly so Art can breathe, and Sal takes the opportunity to ask if there’s anything Art wanted from the flat. Art thinks of the drawing, now disintegrating in stomach acid. He thinks of the paper planes Sal had folded together on long rainy afternoons, now torn from the ceiling. He thinks of the money they have now. The future.  
  
He thinks of going to Egypt, or Liberia, or anywhere in the world with Sal. And he shakes his head, and they walk down the stairs, arms wound around each other, and disappear into the fog.


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theirs are the only bodies now, and they can make their own history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know when you go to write an epilogue and suddenly it's nearly as long as the rest of the fic? Yeah, that happened here. This is hot off the presses, so let me know if you see any errors. 
> 
> I chose Newport as their destination, because apparently unlike most coastal cities in the UK, it's not going to experience too many problems from the sea level rise. I know close to nothing about Newport besides that...I assume there's a park? Somewhere? I hope there's a park.
> 
> Warnings: internalized homophobia, very brief, non-explicit mention of very dubiously consensual encounters in the past, and brief mentions of medical abuse (I think? I'm not sure what the right term is).

Of course there are more complications than that. There are always complications, and perhaps more now than ever before. Art thinks, as they board their first boat, that life before Sal was awfully simple. Terrible, but simple. Then, Art only had to worry about finding a drink, finding some money, and not tipping himself over a ledge when he felt maudlin.  
  
Now, it’s a lot more complicated. The money isn’t a problem, and neither is the drink, but suddenly Art has a person in his life again. A person who, he reluctantly admits to himself, he likes. Someone he _fancies_ , to use an archaic term.  
  
This never happened in the books he read. The two young men who became friends didn’t feel that way towards each other. When they met their kindred souls, they didn’t fall in love.  
  
He thinks that it ruins it, somehow. He’s afraid that he’ll touch Sal and mar him, or that he’ll touch Sal and Sal will be horrified. Or only touch him back out of pity.  
  
—  
  
As it turns out, it’s almost winter. They get a boat to Newport, but there they’re told to settle in for the next few months, because no one will be leaving the ports until March.  
  
So they settle in. It’s not hard to find a flat to stay in; Newport was largely untouched by the rising seas, but that’s far from the only plague that had descended by the close of the 21st century. And with the money they stole, and the various bits of finery they’d pocketed from the club, they’ve got funds.  
  
More importantly, they’ve got anonymity. No one here gets London’s one television channel, or its newspaper. No one knows them.  
  
It’s everything Art ever wanted from London.  
  
—  
  
They go on long walks through the city. Sal is constantly moving, asking Art about this building or that, dragging him into shops and once, pulling him into a park. Art learns that Sal’s never seen a living tree, or touched growing flowers, before Newport.  
  
It’s while they’re on a walk that Art begins to learn about Sal’s past. They’re passing a massive brick building, one that looks like it’s been abandoned to squatters. Art thinks it’s hideous, but Sal walks towards the entrance like he’s being pulled there magnetically.  
  
Art watches Sal read the lettering on the cracked plaque next to the doors. ‘St Woolos Hospital,’ it says. Sal turns grey.  
  
He lets go of Art’s hand and turns around, marches stiffly away from the hospital. Art follows him back to the flat, biting on his lip and smoking cigarette after cigarette to keep his mouth shut.  
  
—  
  
Sal is uncharacteristically quiet for the next few days. He insists that they stay in, and spends long hours looking out the lone window in the flat. Watching the street, apparently. At night, he curls around Art tightly, rucking up Art’s shirt so he can place his hand on Art’s chest. Art lets him, even as his hindbrain screams danger, because he knows that this - this isn’t about sex. It’s not about simple warmth, either. It’s something in between, something about comfort.  
  
Art wonders how many times Sal’s touched people on his own terms, because he wanted to.  
—  
  
On the third night of this, Sal breaks his silence. His mouth is only millimetres from Art’s neck, and Art tries to focus as Sal explains that he’d grown up in a hospital. A mental hospital. He didn’t know why, and no one had ever really explained. It had been alright at first, if a little lonely, but the older he got, the less he liked it. The other people in the hospital were like ghosts, and the doctors he’d known as a child all left and were replaced by men in white coats who sometimes attached wires to his skin and -  
  
Art turns around at that, all thoughts of Sal’s mouth driven from his mind. Sal looks utterly pale, paler than he’d been in Dickie’s playroom. His jaw is tight, and he’s shaking.  
  
Art doesn’t know much about comforting people, but he moves on instinct now, pressing his head to Sal’s and thumbing away an errant tear. Sal takes a deep breath, exhales with a shudder.  
  
He keeps talking. About how people - how the guards thought he was pretty, and there were things he needed. And so, and so.  
  
And then the doctors and guards had started disappearing, and soon only a few were left and they were like ghosts too. So blank that when he decided to escape, there’d been no one who cared to stop him.  
  
He doesn’t want to go back, he tells Art. He doesn’t want to go back.  
  
He won’t look at Art after he stops speaking. So Art holds him, and runs a hand down his back like he vaguely remembers his mother doing, decades ago, and he wonders how one person could go through all of that and still love and trust like Sal does.  
  
He wonders how anyone could look at Sal and want to hurt him like that.  
  
—  
  
The next day, they go outside again. They go to the park Sal had found, and Sal sprawls across the grass with his head in Art’s lap, talking about the shapes of the clouds. Art traces Sal’s face with his fingers, following lines and tiny scars across sun-warmed skin. He’s not sure which of them he’s trying to reassure. He’s not sure that it matters.  
  
The two of them get well-past tipsy, there on the grass. The park is devoid of anyone else, and Art remembers a woman who sold them currant buns saying it was the site of a murder, decades ago. But theirs are the only bodies now, and they can make their own history.  
  
When Sal pulls Art down onto the grass and kisses him, it feels right like nothing else in Art’s life ever has. Art breaks the kiss so he can look at Sal, and he finds himself smiling. Sal smiles back at him, eyes bright, and Art _knows_ , with unshakeable certainty, that this will not ruin either of them.


End file.
